


Dinner with the Holmeses (The Game is on)

by okeydokey (LilMissNerdfighter)



Series: Merry Christmas from 221B [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hamish makes a new friend, John bores the in-laws to tears, M/M, Sherlock just generally makes people cry, The Watson-Holmes family play a Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:14:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilMissNerdfighter/pseuds/okeydokey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unfortunately for everyone involved, Sherlock is obligated to attend the Holmes' Annual Christmas Dinner. Naturally, John and Hamish are dragged along too. The only way to make the entire situation bearable is to play a game, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner with the Holmeses (The Game is on)

If there was one thing Sherlock hated more than crying children, stupid people and traffic jams, it was the parties Mummy held. He was forced to attend at least once each year, and he usually left it until the Christmas party, in the hope that Mummy would forget that he hadn’t been to one. She never did, and he always ended up at the Christmas ‘ball’. Why she called it a ball, he had no idea. There was dinner, monotonous conversation and dancing afterwards. This year, however, he was forcing John and Hamish to come with him- there was no way that they were escaping another one.

So, Hamish was dressed in a shirt and tie, and John was in a tux (he didn’t understand why he couldn’t just wear a jumper, and Sherlock had promised that next year he could). Sherlock was wearing his purple shirt. They looked well-co-ordinated and they wore matching expressions of dread as they slid into Mycroft’s car. Sherlock didn’t want to see his family (How did you survive that fall? Did you solve that case with the thing? Don’t you dare tell my wife about my girlfriend), John could barely deal with the Holmes brothers, let alone the third cousins, grandparents and boyfriends. Hamish hated the shirt he was wearing, and knew from previous experience that if his parents weren’t looking forward to something, then there was a good chance that he wouldn’t like it either. He was considering jumping out of the window (and surprisingly, Hamish was the most optimistic of the three). They rode in silence, all three plotting ways to a) survive the evening and b) to irritate as many Holmeses as possible. If they were going to do this family outing thing, they were going to do it Watson-Holmes style.

The rules were simple. Whoever could provoke the most sarcastic, mean or generally rude comments won. They each had a handicap so it was fair: it was still technically Sherlock’s house and so people would be more wary of being rude for fear of being kicked out, John was the husband of said man and he had a reputation amongst the Holmeses for ruining people who annoyed him (which wasn’t entirely correct, but how were they to know?), and lastly, Hamish was a ten year old kid, and who picks on a little boy?

The car pulled to a stop what felt like hours later and they exchanged identical looks. The Game was on.

**

Used the wrong spoon, check. Spilt a drink over random aunt or whoever, done. Next up, drop a fork and crawl on the floor and stab people’s feet. Maybe a napkin too. Oh- and hide things in  Second Cousin Sam’s hair. Hamish balanced the fork on the side of the table and slammed down on it with his elbow. It flew through the air, narrowly missing Almost Uncle (Mark, was it? Or Martin?)’s face, and bouncing off the wall. It finally stopped under Great Aunt Margret’s chair. Score! Hamish grinned, making sure to make eye contact with as many of his relatives as possible (he was sure that they knew what he was doing), and slid under the table.

He could hear Mycroft arguing with his father (who the hell sat them next to each other?) and his dad repeating the same sentence over and over, almost boring his listeners to tears. They were doing better than him- he had only received pointed looks and three whispered complaints to Mummy Holmes, who had eyed him disapprovingly. Sherlock had an easy target; he must’ve been on at least nine by now. He didn’t know about John, he was surprisingly good at irritating people. Hamish crawled over people’s feet, retrieving the fork and jabbing people with it as he loudly returned. Brilliant- another _five_ \- he was on a roll!

He was just settling back into his seat, balancing his napkin on Sam’s head (how did he not notice? God, some of his relations were so thick!) when he heard Mycroft yelling.

 ‘Sherlock!’

He saw another relative storm out of the room, followed by an entourage of outraged family members. A wave of whispers echoed around the dining room. Apparently, his father had just informed Wendy (second cousin in twice removed, or something) that her fiancé was cheating on her with her son’s girlfriend. Hamish tried to hide a small smile, but failed miserably. Why anyone attended these events even trying to keep any secrets with Sherlock around was a mystery to him (this was his first formal dinner with the whole family and even he knew that). Hamish slipped a flower from one of the vases and positioned it on top of Sam’s new hat; daring anyone who saw him to tell Sam (he was so overprotective of his hats).

‘You made her cry!’ Mycroft’s furious comment resonated around the room, his eyes blazing. Sherlock’s façade of indifference remained. John however, took a swig of his’ champagne’ (which was, in reality water. He found it easier to keep track of the Holmeses when sober) and wobbled to his feet.

‘Sherlock, that’s a bit not good.’ He slurred, slumping back into his chair. Hamish rolled his eyes and began pouring peas into his Great Aunt’s bag (he was really overdoing the drunken act). Of course Dad would want to cancel that one (not good was the phrase they had decided to use to null the reaction), but he supposed it was a bit far. Hamish rose to his feet, and pinged a carrot at a random ten year old opposite him. She stuck her tounge out, seemingly accepting the challenge.

‘Father, Dad’s right-that was not good.’

He sat back down, cross-legged on his chair, ducking as a chipolata sausage was propelled towards his head ( _No manners, that child)_. He lobbed a spoonful of parsnip back at her, laughing quietly at her delighted smile.

‘Young man, it is not polite to fight a lady.’ Protested his Great Aunt. Did that count as a snide remark?

‘Why not?’ Hamish mumbled, slipping his hands into his pockets. ‘She’s just some cousin.’

‘That girl is no relation of yours; Charlotte is nineteenth in line to the throne and here on special request of your grandmother. So, if you would treat her with some respect-‘

He was hit in the face with mashed potato and he retaliated with a Brussels sprout (if it was covered in gravy, that wasn’t his fault). His Great Aunt gave him an appalled look and a large sigh and gave up. _You’ve got a bit of potato, just there. No- higher._ Charlotte mimed at him, with a smirk. He went to wipe the potato off his face at her instruction, and found the napkin wasn’t where he had left it. Sugar, his napkin was in Sam’s hair!

_Time out_ , Hamish mouthed back. She nodded slightly, turning to her left to make polite conversation with some old crone. Her acting was pretty good (her eyes didn’t wander more than normal and she seemed to be giving him her full attention, despite tapping her fingers on the table).  He realised he was staring and quickly diverted his gaze. The napkin was under a pile of cutlery and flowers. Hamish quickly yanked the napkin from under the objects (just like a magician) and caught the napkin as it slipped from his grasp. The rest of the stuff clattered to the floor (okay, maybe not). Charlotte raised her eyebrow at him and he shrugged in reply (not that many people had noticed). Sam, on the other hand, had finally joined the rest of the world.

‘Did someone say my name?’

Hamish shook his head, summoning his most innocent smile. Sam took another sip of his champagne, looked like he was about to mention the potato on Hamish’s cheek and shirt, but instead returned his attention to his (barely concealed) book. Hamish waited until he was reabsorbed in the text, before propelling a roast potato at Charlotte and ducking under the table to retrieve the assorted pieces of cutlery which littered the floor.

When he returned from under the table, Charlotte’s eyes were glittering mischievously.

_Is that the best you’ve got, Holmes?_

_It’s Watson-Holmes_ , _and you haven’t seen anything yet._

**

It was two hours and thirty-seven minutes later and Hamish was bored out of his mind. His parents had disappeared (as had Mycroft) and Charlotte was deep in conversation with yet another old woman, about the pros and cons of _cross stitching_. He slumped in his seat, abandoning all pretences of interest. He couldn’t even attempt to win the contest, Sherlock had won hands down. Not only had he made his cousin cry, he had set fire to the Dining Room table and had simultaneously broken three plates and revealed that his aunt was one lottery ticket away from bankruptcy (which everyone knew, but it was just bad manners to acknowledge it).

So, he picked at the stitching on the cushions and struggled to stay awake. He was just about to give up completely when a butler handed him a note.

_Macarena in five?- C_

Apparently Charlotte hadn’t been quite as enthralled by his relative’s knowledge of needlework as it first appeared. And really, had she needed to ask? He was quite ready to jump at the chance to make the others a little more annoyed and to make things a little less boring (it was in his genes).

The next five minutes ticked past slowly, as he hijacked the automated iTunes playlist (the band had left hours ago) and ensured the song was set to play exactly on the five minute mark. Unfortunately, this took less than thirty seconds, and so he settled back into his chair to try and work out who the hell Charlotte was.

Ten years old, sent by her mother- no, grandmother- who was not enjoying herself –food fights and sabotaging music was not generally a sign of someone who took delight in Holmesian dinners-but was good at disguising it-how she had managed to look engrossed in what she was discussing, he had no idea. He’d have to ask her sometime. Parents, unhappily married- she’d been sent here tonight to get her out of the way whilst they discussed their options. They were under the impression that she had no idea that their marriage was in trouble, but she had known for months.

The first bars of the song started playing and Hamish leapt to his feet, Charlotte mirroring his actions. He was laughing as she missed a step and hurried to recover. She giggled as he stumbled over his grandmother’s dog. Some other kids (who had been doing their best to blend into the shadows until now) joined in as the adults watched, stunned. Holmes children were famed for being seen and not heard, and for being quiet and focused and stupidly intelligent. They were definitely not known for laughing, or for being anything close to normal. It was a shock to the majority of the adults present that the children even knew the steps involved in the Macarena (where had they learnt them?).

Despite the astonishment of their relatives, they continued repeating the steps over and over, attempting to sing along even though no-one even had the faintest idea what the words actually were. And when the song had finished, they retreated back into the darkness, as if it had never happened. As if they hadn’t participated in an event which would go down in history. Sensing the unease of the adults and the growing irritation in them, Charlotte grabbed Hamish’s hand and pulled him out of the room and down the hall, ignoring the yells of protest from the Holmeses.

Somehow they ended up in what had been Sherlock’s library when he had lived at the Manor. They talked about nothing for forever, before falling into a comfortable silence. Charlotte pulled a copy of ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ off a nearby shelf and began to read quietly, resting her head on Hamish’s shoulder. He put an arm round her shoulders and tried his best to read the small print. After a while though, her reading pace began to slow, as did her breathing, and she fell asleep. Hamish tried to resist the urge to sleep too, but it was getting late and it really was very comfortable (despite the radiator being cold against his back). A moment later and he succumbed too.

**

When Sherlock and John finally found Hamish, he was alone. There was no trace of Charlotte -they hadn’t even seen her that evening. As far as they were concerned, there was no Charlotte. They probably thought he was making her up. Hamish sighed, slipping the copy of ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ in his pocket, not seeing the scrawled digits printed on a slip of paper marking their place in the book. He would find it few weeks later, by which point he’d think it was too late- why would _Charlotte_ care about that odd boy she spent a few hours with at some stuffy old dinner.

On the journey home, Sherlock relived the finest moments of his victory, and John recounted the three separate occasions where he had bored people to tears. Hamish told them about the flash mob, carefully omitting Charlotte. Of course, Sherlock refused to believe that any of his relatives had done something remotely like normal children and John was unsure too.

Little did they know that on Hamish’s 21st birthday, a tape of that dance would be played, dispelling every shadow of doubt and embarrassing Hamish beyond belief.

Maybe the Christmas Dinner hadn’t been completely useless after all.


End file.
